Saying Goodbye (What the World Doesn't Know) (15 page)

            Several security guards encircled Alex, lifted him from the ground, and carried him to waiting limousine. Slumped in the leather seat, Alex checked his face not being able to tell if it had been bloodied or was merely bruised, but his cheekbone ached profusely either way.    The rest of the band was silent as the driver pulled away from the crowds. They all joked about the violence, but not one of them considered any threat a reality.

             Back in the safety of their hotel suite, their manager, Darren Chapman, placed a frozen steak on Alex’s face and gave him a few aspirin. Alex dragged on a cigarette as he reclined on the couch with his head slung over the back of the seat.

            “Whadda real meathead,” joked Nick with a laugh as he leaned over to inspect Alex’s injury. “Good thing the assailant didn’t mistake you for the president.”

            “Well, he is part Irish and a Catholic,” said Josh with a casual shrug.

            “And you know how Dallas feels about Irish Catholics,” added Peter.

            “Serves you right for even setting foot in Texas,” Nick scolded. “You were pretty much asking for it.”

            “Guys, give the poor guy a break,” said Robbie, plopping down on the couch alongside him. “The assailant was probably the president of the Frankie Robinson fan club.” Robbie looked closely at Alex. “Was his hands sticky?”

            Nick broke into a loud laugh and started hooting and hollering.

            Alex lifted his head and removed the steak from his face. “Fuck off!” he said, biting down on the cigarette between his teeth.

            Josh lit a cigarette. “That’s exactly what we intend to do.”

            When the guys departed from the room, Alex sat upright and called out to them. “Where are you guys going?” he asked.

            “Out!” said Josh.

            “What about me?” asked Alex.

            “You are going nowhere,” said Darren and then handed Alex a glass of whiskey. “So what did you do to cause this anyway?”

            “Nothing, I swear. Guy just went ape on my face.”

            “Did you say anything?” asked Darren. “Did you give him a look? You must have done something.” He was beginning to remind Alex of a judgmental interrogator.

            “I’m the one who got punched!” exclaimed Alex. “Can’t I have a little sympathy?”

            “You can get sympathy from your girlfriend,” replied Darren.

            Tony the road manager was perched on the top edge of the couch next to Alex’s head. “This would be the perfect cover photo for a boxing magazine. He looks like Henry Cooper after a fight with Muhammad Ali.”

            “Ha! Tony, you’re a riot,” remarked Alex. “Perhaps you should get your own television show.”

            “I’m just glad it’s the end of the tour and we have a few days break before the charity concert,” said Darren, patting Alex on the head. “By that time, you should be pretty enough for the ball.”

            “I don’t know,” said Tony with a wink, “You know how girls go crazy for guys with black eyes. You might be able to work it toward your advantage.”

            “Leave me alone,” Alex said and then rose from the couch.

            “Hey, Alex!” Darren called. “Is she worth it?”

            Alex turned around, repositioning the steak on his face and stopped in contemplation.

“Yes,” he replied and then headed for his room to make his sympathy call.

            Plopping on the bed, he reached for the phone and dialed. As it rang, he placed the ice pack over his face. Frankie’s mother answered.

            “Is Frankie there?” he asked.

            Frankie jostled the phone away from Geraldine and then quickly disappeared around the corner as far as the cord would allow. “Hi,” she said.

            Alex studied his face in the mirror and fingered the bruises on his cheek. “Guess what happened to me tonight?”

            “You were mauled on stage by a mother grizzly bear?”

            “Close. I was punched in the face while making my way to the stage.”

            “What did you do?”

            “Why does everyone assume I did something? Geez,” said Alex. “No, he was jealous because I’m dating you.”

            “Don’t blame me!” Frankie exclaimed, “I don’t want any part of it.”

            “I took a few punches for you and it hurts really bad.” He faked a whimper.

            Frankie laughed and said, “When you get here, I’ll give it a kiss.”

            “I’m counting on it,” said Alex.

            He hung up the phone and stared at his reflection in the mirror. The right side of his face was red and swollen, and there was a black circle darkening around his eye. He didn’t look like himself, but surprisingly he felt good even after getting punched. Alex immediately attributed that to Frankie. There was no groveling or swooning at his feet; there were no efforts to impress.      

            She treated him like he was a friend. It was great to finally be with someone for whom he did not have to put on airs and was absolutely free to be himself.

 

            After their Dallas concert the Dark Knights were invited to Thoroughbred Castle Ranch in Kentucky for a much
-needed
 break. Owner John Castle was a distinguished Chicago industrialist who specialized in hog feed and spent his earnings breeding Thoroughbred racehorses. Castle was not a fan of the Dark Knight’s music; he was more interested in the notoriety of playing host to the famous five. The Dark Knights looked forward to some quiet time away from the maddening crowds, but mostly they were hoping to meet some pretty female stable hands for some barnyard fun. They were disappointed, however, when they found out Castle’s hired help consisted solely of old, grungy, burly groomsmen.

            Although it was nice to be far away from the fans and the crowds, Alex grew bored fairly quickly. Though the others were learning how to ride horses, mucking around the stables, and loving every minute of it, Alex wasn’t very impressed. He could go the rest of his life satisfied with never mounting a horse ever again, unless it was a certain desirable young filly named Frankie. His mind dwelt on images of making love to her in the barn in between the bales of hay. Every boy has his fantasy, and this was Alex’s.

            On any other occasion, Alex would have appreciated the holiday. He had never breathed such clean, crisp air, and the rolling grassy hills were inspiring. As he rested his arms over a tall white picket fence, he watched a couple of stallions romp in the grassy fields. Alex could relate; he was given freedom to wander, as long as he stayed within the defined boundaries of his agent, Darren, and his agent’s lawyers. He could date Frankie as long as it wasn’t public, which was one of the new rules after being blitzed in Dallas by a crazed fan’s fist. It was ironic for Alex: he could travel the world, see more than most men would ever see in a lifetime, yet his life was comparatively more confined, making Alex feel like he was living in a prison.

            That evening the band’s host, John Castle, entertained them with a private, informal cookout. There was a raging bonfire, hot dogs and marshmallows to roast over the flames, and all the ice-cold beer they could drink. Castle was thrilled to see the boys so happy; but little did he realize, the laughing and giggling was organically induced by the dope they were passing around behind his back. Even though Alex was enjoying himself, getting high with his buddies beneath the clear, starry Kentucky sky, he couldn’t get past the desire to get back to New York City.

            Later, lying in bed, Alex had a hard time sleeping, despite the quietness of the countryside. Frankie was still on his mind. He had only known her for a few weeks, but it seemed he had known her for so much longer. A cool breeze blew through the open window as the magnolia tree outside clattered against the glass. Alex looked over at Pete, who was apparently fast asleep.

            “Pete,” Alex said, testing him.

            “Yeh?” Peter replied sleepily.

            “I don’t want to go home,” said Alex.

            “Wasn’t it you who said Americans were fanatical loons?” Peter asked with tired sigh.    “How many times do yeh need to get punched in the face to realize that?”

            Touching the bruise on his face, Alex watched the wind blow through the branches outside. “Yeh,” he muttered. “But they’re not all so bad. You know, like Dave Rattigan and Cassie; they’re pretty cool.”

            “And Frankie,” replied Peter. “Don’t forget, you have Sarah waiting back home. That should be enough of an incentive.”

            Alex remained silent; it had been a while since he had given Sarah any thought. It astonished him to find he didn’t even miss her, but was already missing Frankie and hadn’t even left yet.

            Was it possible to love two women? Nick certainly loved his wife, but was unfaithful to her with Cassie during most of the trip. And Peter had a girlfriend at home, but romanced Gillian the whole time in Hollywood. And then there was Robbie, who had a multitude of lovers.

            The problem for Alex was that he wanted Frankie, and she was the girl he’d be leaving in a few days to return home to the girl for whom his feelings were merely casual.

 

            The morning sunshine came harshly through the window and stabbed Alex’s bruised eye.  He immediately held up his hand to shield his eyes from the sun’s glare and, a moment later, realized he was alone. He was in a much better mood; he was going to see Frankie today. He rolled out of bed, slid into a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, and then walked into the kitchen where he found the rest of the band and their entourage enjoying a hearty breakfast of steak and eggs.

            “It looks like Rocky Raccoon finally woke up,” said Nick, referring to Alex’s bruised face.

            “Ha-ha, funny guy. Everyone is a comedian,” Alex grumbled as he reached into his denim pocket for a cigarette.

            “They said they’d fly us back early to New York if you want,” said Peter.

            Alex puffed on his cigarette and then poured himself a cup of tea. “When?”

            “Whenever we’re ready.”

            ‘Whenever’ wasn’t good enough for Alex; he wanted to leave now.

            “I’ll go pack my bags,” he said.

            While waiting for Peter and the others
returning to New York early
 to finish getting ready, Alex took the opportunity to call Frankie. Castle offered Alex the use of a private phone in his den. The room was decorated with horseracing ribbons and awards and on the walls hung stuffed hunting trophies. The deer heads mounted on the wall began to freak Alex out. Having the sensation that one of those mounted heads could be his, he rushed to make the call, so he could get the hell out of that room.

            Alex dialed Frankie’s number and was disappointed to hear her mother’s voice.

            “Hello?” answered Geraldine.

            Alex grasped the phone tightly; he wished it were Frankie who had answered. “Is Frankie available?” he asked.

            “No, she’s out getting ready for the ball.”

            Alex paused and then replied. “I’ll call her back later.”

            “May I at least ask who called?” questioned Geraldine, but she soon ventured a guess. “Is this the famous Alex Rowley?”

            “Yes.”

            “I’ll tell her to expect your call,” said Geraldine.

            “Thank you,” he replied politely. Alex hung up the phone, wondering if Frankie would indeed get the message that he called. Something about Geraldine’s unfriendly tone made him uncomfortable.

 

            An hour later, a small private commuter plane lifted off over a meadow of wildflowers. On board, Alex and Peter were sitting across the aisle from one another. Chase had taken the seat in front of Alex. Alex lit a cigarette to
try
 to relax as the plane took off from the small private runway.

            The interior of the plane shook and rattled as it slowly gained altitude. Suddenly the pilot pitched the plane at a sharp angle and it shot up into the sky. Everyone in the cabin grabbed tightly onto the nearest armrests and looked around at each other, unsure. Alex looked out the window at the ground below and could see only the treetops of a wooded area off in the distance. Within a few minutes the pilot leveled the plane and someone came around offering each of them a drink. Alex chose a glass of whiskey to calm his nerves.

            When the plane landed at a private airstrip in New Jersey, the pilot immediately greeted the land crew at the door. Alex, Peter, and Chase were quickly escorted away from the plane to the small commuter terminal.

            “What about our bags and instruments?” asked Chase, turning back toward the plane.

            “We’ll bring them to you,” said one of the ground crew, encouraging them quickly along.

            Alex, Peter, and Chase watched from inside the airport as their luggage was removed from the rear cargo area of the plane. What they didn’t see were the many bullet holes lodged into the fuselage. All they could see was the pilot talking with ground crew.

            “What do you think is going on out there?” asked Peter.

            Alex lit a cigarette and said, “I don’t care; I just want them to hurry the hell up so we can get out of ’ere.”

            Outside, one of the ground crew ran his fingers over the bullet holes. “What the hell happened?” he asked.

            “Couple of kids in the field were popping off their shotguns at the plane as we took off. It wasn’t until we were mid-air that I felt comfortable,” said the pilot. “No major damage was done.”